


Constants

by CodaDelta



Category: BioShock
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Gen, I'll add more tags, It's going to get complicated, Mental Health Issues, Rapture Civil War, Universal tears
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-07
Updated: 2016-05-14
Packaged: 2018-05-12 11:42:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5664844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CodaDelta/pseuds/CodaDelta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As there are many universes, there are many iterations of Jack Ryan- he who came to Rapture with his father, he who crashed a plane into the Atlantic, he who remembers nothing before he was nineteen years old, and he who doesn't even seem to be Jack Ryan at all. Maybe it's the long nights, or the booze, or the reluctance to seek medical help, but the heir apparent is starting to lose track of which he is, and which he was first, as tears start appearing in Rapture, and only one word is really constant: Atlas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There's no clear plan for this story, as of yet, but I felt like writing something overly-complicated and full of angst.

**October, 1958**

He had to keep reminding himself that it wasn't sunlight. That it was neon gas in bent, electrified tubes that dappled the water outside of his window, throwing shards of blue and red light over the walls.  
Jack's head was pounding when he woke, though he didn't remember having anything to drink the night before. Then again, he didn't remember deciding to sleep in his living room either. The room was in semi-darkness, swathed in pale red light that flashed at a rate that was almost perfectly timed to increase the throbbing in his head. He turned over, almost tipping himself off the sofa, squinting at the mantelpiece. It was impossible to tell what time it was without the clock.  
It was always night in Rapture in terms of any source of natural light, although the street lamps and storefronts were cycled throughout the 24 hour period in an attempt to simulate days and nights. They'd tried cycling the temperatures throughout the city, as well, allowing it to drop when it should be winter topside. However, they'd found the co-ordination too difficult to maintain, instead switching back to constant heat, favouring Olympus Heights and Arcadia. There were no discernable seasons, as the Rapture Best and Brightest had conducted all the botanical experiments possible for the consumer. They would sit in carefully orchestrated lines and it was all so constantly, achingly fake.  
There was a shrill ringing coming from somewhere as Jack attempted to sit up. His mouth was dry and he felt as though he might heave. He squinted at the clock- four in the morning. There were a good four hours before he had to be anywhere, and he knew he wouldn't get back to sleep now- he could never do so with a headache. Bringing a hand up to rub his eye, he found something sticky above his lip and frowned- he must have got a nosebleed. The ringing continued further as he climbed to his feet, head throbbing. Was it the telephone? Or was it coming from inside his skull? He'd never spliced before, but this is what he'd imagine it to feel like.  
Managing a stumbling shuffle, Jack was able to get over to the phone, praying that the noise would stop once he lifted the receiver. Thankfully, that was true, although he couldn't bring himself to hold the thing next to his ear. He put it down- whoever it was, if it was really so important, could call him back. If it was his father, he could come and speak to him in person. He waited a few minutes, and when it blissfully didn't ring again, he went to take a shower. His limbs felt sore and stiff, and he wished he could remember exactly what had happened before he went to sleep. He also wished he could say it was the first time.  
He'd had days where he woke, drowsy and disorientated, in a state of mild confusion, several times before. It didn't happen with enough frequency to worry him, and he knew enough about some of the doctors down here not to volunteer himself for any sort of psychiatric assessment unless he was under immediate threat. Or maybe not then, either.  
It took him a good half hour to shower and change without turning a light on- the throbbing moved behind his eyes somewhere between the sofa and the bathroom. He forwent both the radio and breakfast, instead opting for coffee, aspirin, and attempting to clear up. Generally speaking, Jack was actually a fairly tidy person, but he'd managed to accumulate quite a collection of crockery throughout his living room and bedroom. Cleaning up took him to half past five, allowing for two almost-throwing-up incidents.

He waited until six before leaving, deciding to head over to Fort Frolic early. There were few people around, and the lighting was blissfully dim in the hallway and across the square towards the Metro station. If he was thankful for one thing, it was decent housing- an apartment in Athena's Glory was one of the only benefits of being Andrew Ryan's son he would gladly accept. He bought a paper from a dispenser and settled down to wait for a tram. There wasn't much of great interest- advertisements for Cohen's latest 'masterpiece', a robbery at Olympus Heights, and an increased warning about keeping distance from Little Sisters. A few people drifted into the station before the tram came in, none of whom he spoke to. They were, as a rule, high powered businessmen or their glamorous counterparts, and they took their seats quietly. Eventually the tram rattled through, right on time. Double checking that it was the right service, Jack got to his feet and made his way over to the open door.  
"Excuse me?" Jack turned. The man had an accent and looked exhausted, dressed in an overpriced suit. "If you're finished with it, could I have your paper?"  
"Sure thing." He handed it over. The man nodded, and then frowned.  
"Do I know you from somewhere?" He asked, tucking the paper under his arm.  
"Well, we do seem to be neighbours."  
"No, it's-" He snapped his fingers in a comically cheesy fashion. "You're Andrew Ryan's kid, aren't ya?"  
"Unfortunately so."  
"Pleasure to meet you, Mr Ryan." He stuck out a hand, which Jack took.  
"And yourself, Mr...?"  
"Jerry Carson."  
"Well, I'm afraid this is my tram, so..."  
"Of course." Carson smiled and took a step backwards. "I won't hold you up. Good morning, Mr Ryan."  
Jack nodded, offering him a half-hearted smile- he found it very difficult to enthusiastically engage with anyone who opened with 'you're Andrew Ryan's kid, aren't ya?'. He'd been to hundreds of society events, and he was tired of that being his only distinction.  
He stepped past the man and onto the tram, sliding into a seat, still feeling Carson's eyes on him all the while.

The journey was longer this early in the morning, as they didn't want to disturb those who were rich enough to take the service from Olympus Heights with too much rattling. The lights were cycled on by the time they pulled into Fort Frolic, although the full neon effect hadn't come on yet. There were a few people setting up shop, lifting shutters and setting out displays. He still had an hour and a half to kill, so he deposited himself on a bench and closed his eyes. Though the throbbing had subsided, his headache still lingered. He listened vaguely to the conversation around him- it was mostly generic pleasantries, although he heard the name Fontaine several times. The man had been dead a good month now, but it seemed as though people could still talk about it, especially after the take-over. Seemed as though every poster in Neptune's Bounty was having Andrew Ryan's name scratched over it, despite the questions about how that lay with his ideology.  
By the time eight o'clock rolled around, he was actually close to falling asleep again, and it was with a great reluctance that he got to his feet and headed over to Rapture Records, punching the keycode in and hitting the lights, the latter doing nothing for his headache. Jack went about setting up shop and pulling covers off the stock- they'd actually got a grand piano from God knows where, though who was actually going to buy that, he had no idea.  
To his surprise, Cobb was already in the back, hunched over his desk. The light was on, and it didn't actually look as though he'd moved since Jack left last night.  
"That time already?" He asked, without looking up.  
"You been here all night?"  
"I have a deadline for this piece. Go up front and I'll come join ya in a minute."  
He did as he was told, putting the gramophone on- one of Cohen's latest. As tedious as it was, at least the job had a soundtrack.

"Geez, Ryan, you look like shit." Was Cobb's diplomatic and tactful reaction when he came through.  
"You're not looking so swell yourself."  
"Least I have something to show for it." He waved a wad of paper in his face. "I told you Fitzpatrick was coming, right?"  
Jack rubbed his hand over his face. "Probably. Forgot."  
"Looks like you had the right night for it."  
"What's he coming for?"  
"Playing the piano. I have a piece at Cohen's exhibition." He said it with a grin. Cobb had used the phrase 'musical genius' when referring to Sander Cohen before, and always talked about him with a certain reverence, so Jack decided not to say anything- even if the man was thoroughly unnerving to the point of plausibly being considered a psychopath. He'd met Cohen at one of the Rapture's Best and Brightest parties at the Adonis Resort, and taken extra precaution to never encounter him again. He'd let Cobb and the other disciples appreciate his musical genius, and keep a healthy distance for himself.  
It was at that moment a young couple walked in, and Cobb made a spinning motion with his finger at Jack and retreated towards the back room again.  
"Anything I can help you with?" He asked, refraining from rolling his eyes at his boss' retreating back.  
"Frank Sinatra. Eddie promised he'd get me a record for my birthday." Said the woman, elbowing her companion.  
"Anything the lady wants."  
"Was there a track in particular?"

"Well," Said a voice from the doorway, cutting in smoothly "there's a wonderful number that I would recommend." All three of them turned in unison. The speaker was a slender, good looking young man dressed in a suit and spats. He nodded to Jack. "If I might use your piano? I'm sure Silas won't mind."  
Must be Fitzpatrick. He couldn't see a reason why not.  
"Be my guest."  
Fitzpatrick smiled and walked over in a few steps, sweeping imaginary dust off the keys before positioning his long fingers and setting off into a pleasant riff. "I won't sing for you, but you get the idea." He said after a while, lifting his hands from the keys. The woman applauded, bouncing on the spot.  
"I know you- Fitzpatrick! Scarlet Origins- oh, you were wonderful- the whole ballet was beautiful- Cohen really is a genius."  
Jack suddenly felt that if he heard how wonderful Sander Cohen's work was one more time this morning, he just might have to smash a glass pane in one of the outer corridors and give them all a merciful death.  
"Oh, Eddie, it has to be that one! What was it called?"  
"Come Fly With Me. 1957."  
"I'll see if we stock it." He went over into the back, leaving the woman to fawn over Fitzpatrick whilst her companion looked slightly disgruntled. Cobb was hunched over the desk again. "Fitzpatrick's here. Do we have any 57's?"  
Cobb waved a hand, though he wasn't sure what to make of that. It was probably an 'I'm done humouring you while I'm working, go do the job I pay you for' motion. By the time he'd found what he was looking for- quite a few of their copies had been smashed in a botch delivery from Neptune's Bounty-, 'Eddie' was looking incredibly left out, and Fitzpatrick like he needed saving.  
He rung it up for him, and watched as he practically dragged the woman from the store. Fitzpatrick was still sat at the piano, fingers resting lazily on keys.  
"You get many like that?" He asked, amused.  
"High culture doesn't mean we're spared the adoring fans. Where do you think they get their supplies?"  
Fitzpatrick laughed. "Not you?"  
"I've met Cohen in person, and I'm not a fan. Lovely piano, though, Mr Fitzpatrick."  
"Please, call me Kyle...?"  
"Jack."  
"Most people wouldn't dare talk about Rapture's musical darling like that- especially in Fort Frolic."  
"I didn't sleep enough last night to think about it."  
"I know the feeling." He nodded to the piano. "Any requests before you're forced to listen to Silas' musical _tragedy_ a thousand times?" He asked, raising his voice for the latter part of the question, rewarding with a vague insult from the back room.  
Jack found himself warming to Kyle Fitzpatrick. "You know any Trenet?"  
"Would you like something very fitting for the general location?"  
"Go on."


	2. Chapter 2

"Mark 46 as piano with a crescendo to 50, and we'll see how that goes."  
"It'll go the same, but get louder in the middle of the second page. If you try a key change at-"  
"My piece, Kyle."  
Jack rolled his eyes, as the two continued to squabble. They'd been doing this for several hours, and although it had brought in quite a few over-inquisitive passersby, it really wasn't worth the bickering.  
"Just change it to G major! Then there are half a million less accidentals! " He had no idea what accidentals were, but they'd been brought up too many times in the past hour. They'd got to the point where 'practicing' became 'yelling at', and he was tempted to leave early.  
"Just play it right!" The problem with a city of the world's best and brightest was that none of them were willing to concede that they could possibly make a mistake, so nothing got done even near to quickly, and God forbid someone had a better idea.  
"I am playing it right, it's a horribly written section!"  
Restocking sounded like a wonderful idea right about now, but Fitzpatrick held out a hand to stop him before he got to the counter. He clicked his fingers at him. "No, Jack, listen to this part, and then listen to it agin, and tell me which sounds better."  
"I can promise I won't be able to tell the difference."  
Cobb sighed, grating his teeth. "It won't make any difference. It's D minor- changing it won't do anything, because you know the notes."  
"You can't write it just using theory. It sounds like garbage."  
"Garbage?!"

Jack carried on into the back room, leaving them to yell. This wouldn't be over quickly, and there was no chance he would miss customers with them bickering like this. There was a low hum from the storage room, which he decided to put down to an electrical malfunction before fishing a cigarette from his pocket. Technically, there was a rule of no smoking inside, but he decided he needed it more than usual.  
Taking a deep drag, he leant against a wall and listened to them argue. They went back to silent fuming after a few long minutes, and the hum got slightly louder, and under the door, he could see someone had left the light on. It was flickering unpleasantly, one of those godawful white lightbulbs. He took another drag.  
"Wynand!" He straightened up, dropping his cigarette.  
"Yeah?!" He looked around, and then blinked a few times. He stepped on the cigarette, and headed back through. Cobb and Fitzpatrick were still glaring at each other, and neither looked up at him. Wondering briefly who had called him, Jack shrugged and checked his watch. There were still three hours until the end of his shift.  
"Wynand!" He turned sharply. Neither Cobb nor Fitzpatrick had spoken to him. Must be down to a lack of sleep.

It took one hundred and fifty minutes, two broken pencils, and three women fawning over Fitzpatrick for the two to make up. Also, two outbursts and a packet of cigarettes. Jack was left to his own devices, aside from an errand across to Sincalir Spirits -"Jack, get me a coffee and I'll be endebtted to you until the day I die." "'F ya get me a beer I'll give you a raise.".  
A coffee flask and a home-brew cost him a dollar and forty three cents. Damn Rapture prices. It might be something to do with the capitalist-or-die policy they had, or just because they couldn't get it anywhere else, but either way, his wallet really felt it sometimes.  
When he got back, Fitzpatrick was stood outside, still smoking. He accepted the coffee and nodded at the door.  
"Silas closed a few minutes ago. Never seen the man so whacked out. Shouldn't have told 'im dischords should only be written by people who actually know shit about music. Wouldn't go in 'less you want something sharp in the eye. Keep his beer. Have it with me."  
"Seriously?"  
"I've had enough of artistics. Let's have a drink." He waved a hand and Jack's concerned expression. "Don't worry, I'm not tryin' to get ya to a strip club. I mean a drink . Satyr's. A drink."  
He blinked a few times. "I wasn't expecting a proposition."  
"'S hardly indecent." He looked at him hopefully. "Don't tell me you don't want one after all that."

They took a bathysphere over to Market Street, and Jack was thankful for his company drawing some of the flack. People noticed Fitzpatrick more easily than him, and they found that if they emulated serious conversation passersby assumed that they were on important business and left them alone.  
They ended up in the back of the Satyr Lounge with a Brandy Alexander and a Margarita, giggling hysterically at a story neither could actually remember anymore. The fact that one of them was a famous pianist, and the other was essentially the heir to Rapture had prompted swift service, but their drunken cackling had secured them a table at the back of the bar, away from the rest of the paying customers.  
"The revolution?!"  
"Yeah, yeah," Fitzpatrick waved a hand, almost knocking his drink over. "artistic parallel or something. Separating from the British and separating from the parasites, both after a war."  
"So what does he want to write? Tell me it's a musical."  
"No, no. It's a 'symphony'." He sketched quotation marks around the word. "If he can even write one of those."  
"I thought his work was 'avant gard'?" He queried, quoting Cobb on multiple occasions. Fitzpatrick snorted.  
"It's over roasted shit."  
He spluttered. Something about the phrase appeared extremely funny to him. "Can I get an exact definition on that?"  
"Any piece of Sander Cohen's."  
"You help write them!" Jack protested, but Fitzpatrick waved a finger and then pointed it at him, taking a few seconds to hone in on his target.  
"No, I just play 'em and they put my name on the posters." He downed half of his margarita. "'S like, you're 'n the museum- you didn't build Rapture." Fitzpatrick had figured out that he was that Jack only after they'd walked through a security checkpoint and the man on the gate had tipped his hat. The ribbing he'd recieved for working in a record shop when his father had built the city had only ended when Jack did an impression of him from the screaming debate a few hours earlier.  
"I'm in a family photo" which wasn't real "and a little..." he clapped his hands, trying to think of the right word. "information board. I'm called 'his son, Johnathan.'. 'S not the same."  
"Johnathan?"  
"It's short for Jack." He frowned. "Wait, no it's not. It's...something." Fitzpatrick laughed again.  
"I wanna see it."  
"It's closed."  
"When did you actually come?"  
"When they opened it." He took a drink- that had been a very very long day, and, coincidentally, the last time he'd actually had a conversation with his father lasting more than five minutes without one of them shouting at the other.  
"Not the museum."  
"Stay on one track. I'm losin' you."  
Fitzpatrick waved a hand again. "To Rapture." Everyone got asked that question by everyone else at some point. He thought for a minute.  
"46."  
"How old were you?"  
"Fourteen. When did you come down?"  
"52."  
"Why?"  
"I was eighteen, in love with Cohen's music, and convinced that I could be a visionary." He sounded sad all of a sudden.  
"You didn't sound so bad this morning."  
Fitzpatrick waved his hand again. "Playing badly written pieces by egomaniacs isn't a hobby of mine. It sounded shitty."  
"Take advantage of the fact I don't know anything about music, then. I thought it was swell." He offered him a lazy grin.  
"How much advantage taking are we talking?"  
"At least buy me dinner first."

Fitzpatrick was passed out on his own sofa before he even got the opportunity. Although he was fun, the man definitely couldn't hold his liquor. Jack found himself wandering down to Neptune's Bounty, although he wasn't entirely sure how. It was god damned freezing, and he ended up following his feet to one of the shipping yards. His father had always told him that this was where parasites festered, so naturally it was exactly where his drunk brain told him to go. Drunk minds are much more susceptible to many things. Like curiosity. And it was curiosity he supposed, that made him jump into the water.  
He'd been sat with his feet in the water, not bothering to take off his shoes and smoking a cigarette when he saw it. One of the fluorescent lights caught something in the water, lying on the bottom, half covered in sediment and grime. It was something small and shiny, and for some reason, he couldn't stop staring at it. Sure, there was an untold amount of crap in there, but he found himself peeling of his socks and shoes and rolling up his sleeves before pushing himself into the water. It was even colder in there, and he realised that this was an awful idea just as his brain was supposed to be shocked awake. Suddenly, his breath was becoming lodged in his throat, and his muscles were loose. His sweater clung to him heavily, and he could feel small chunks of refuse colliding with his hands and face. Squeezing his eyes shut to avoid the copious amounts of grit, he scrabbled around the bottom, tracing his fingers over the lumps and bumps at the bottom of the yard. They closed over something about the size he was looking for and began to kick upwards. All at once, it seemed much deeper, and his muscles couldn't pull him up in time.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He was awoken by a slap to the face- or something that felt like one.  
"You alright, boy? The hell you doing taking a swim plastered for?!" The man leaning over him was red faced, middle aged, and looked deeply concerned.  
"Wha-?" Half way through the word, he felt his chest heave, and a throat-full of water splattered over his chin. The man recoiled, releasing his shoulders. Jack pushed himself up into a sitting position.  
"Careful, kiddo, you've swallowed halfa the yard. What've you taken this time?" This time? Had they met before? He didn't have the comprehensive presence of mind to question it out loud, as he found his face being examined carefully- almost clinically.  
"Can you remember your name?"  
"Jack." It came out hoarse.  
"Good. Jack what?" He sounded oddly calm, as if he'd done this before. There was suddenly a searing pain behind his eyes and he twisted over, feeling something sticky trickle down to his lip. "Fuck me." He hissed, wiping his face with the back of one hand, finding it bloody. Twice in one day- that really couldn't be healthy.  
"Kid? Come on." Jack pinched the bridge of his nose as he attempted to stop the ground from spinning. It felt as though his head was splitting in half.  
"W-Wynand." He choked out, though unsure why. The man rested a hand on his shoulder, still leaning away from him in case of any more water coming up. All of this was giving him an odd sense of deja vu.  
"Take it easy. How'd you get here? They've been looking for ya."  
Who had been looking for him? "There was something in the water- I- I don't-" But there was something else. He didn't just remember wandering down after a drunken evening with Kyle Fitzpatrick- he also remembered running with someone else, the two of them splitting up and him skidding on the slimy planks. In his haste, his feet had been swept from under him and he'd hit his head on the wooden floor and blacked out. The man was frowning at him, as if sensing his uncertainty.  
"Where's A-"  
Another surge of blinding pain shattered the space behind his eyes. "Ah, shit."  
"Come on. I got ya." The man let out a heavy breath and pulled him up gently. The motion made him feel ill. "Let's go." He resisted the urge to pull away from him as he led him away from the water's edge and up the steps.  
"Do- do I know you?" He asked, still dizzy from standing. He should be panicking more- he knew that much, especially as there were now two sets of memories running parallel in his head. There was a part of him that recognised the man, and a voice that worried he was going to harm him. He clearly knew Jack, and he sounded as if speaking from a script.  
"Yeah. I'm gonna leave a note for someone to come get you, okay?"  
There was an old pneumo-tube at the top, and he found himself deposited next to it. His head was starting to become clear as the man pulled paper and a pencil out of his pocket and started scribbling. Despite being able to form logical thought again, he found himself feeling numb. There was still a persistent chill from the water, and for some reason these motions felt like routine. He reached into his pocket for a cigarette and a matchbook, but found neither, only half noticing that his clothes were completely dry.  
"Who's coming?"  
"Jesus, you've been putting it away. Who do you think? Atlas."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not good an intraspection. Thanks so much for the comments- they make me so happy ^.^


End file.
